


The Invisible

by kalypsobean



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Clueless Sherlock, Disability, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:38:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan does not get paid enough to play peacemaker, even though everyone else knows what she goes through every day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invisible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladymordecai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladymordecai/gifts).



> Set early-ish season two (before 2x09), no specific episode.

Joan can see it, even from behind the two-way glass and with a table and the back of Sherlock's head in the way. First it was the awkward hand gestures, as if the woman was trying to squeeze something that wasn't there, and then it was her eyes; she looked anywhere but at Sherlock, mostly down, and then he'd raise his voice and she'd look up, past him or off to the side, and then down again. Joan had to turn the speakers up to hear what she was saying, but soon the words didn't make sense, in between the short, deep breaths and the absence of sentence structure.

"Do you have her bag?" she asked Detective Bell. 

"Nope," he said, and Joan turned away from the window to look at him. "She's a witness, not a suspect." He nodded towards the window. "In there."

She looked back, and saw the woman digging her nails into her hands. "Excuse me a minute," she said, and let herself out. Bell might be fine with watching Sherlock in action, but she'd had enough. 

 

Things hadn't improved in the few minutes it took for her to collect herself and open the door to the interrogation room. "Sherlock, could I have a minute?" she said, and of course Sherlock used the excuse to stare down the woman before following her into the observation room.

"Is there something new? Your posture indicates that you are annoyed, perhaps with me. I have told you before, Miss Watson, that my methods, even if disagreeable, produce results and should be judged on their efficacy. Now, I shall go back in and continue with the questioning."

 

Joan put her hand on Sherlock's arm. "Watch," she said. Bell, thankfully, remained silent and seemed to be pretending to check his phone.

"Miss Watson, there is nothing to see. Avoidance of eye contact, fidgeting, evidence of elevated heart rate and rapid breathing - all indicators that she is lying, as you know. I intend to get the truth and that is what I will now do."

Bell motioned to the window. The woman had, now that she was alone, reached for her bag and seemed to be looking for something in it; she scrabbled through her belongings and then her whole body seemed to relax, as if she had found what she was after. The stuffed toy was only as big as her hand, but she squeezed it in both. She didn't even bother to put her bag back on the floor.

"Give her a minute," Joan said. 

She only let go once she was sure Sherlock wouldn't charge back in there. 

 

It ended up that Joan had to call the woman's sister to come and get her, and even Bell couldn't get anything more out of her. Sherlock, naturally, did not speak a word in the cab on the way back to the brownstone. Joan was surprised to note that she was grateful; she felt as if she had cotton wool for a brain and her shoulders felt strained, like she'd spent the day carrying heavy loads instead of trailing around the station.

 

~*~

 

Joan was prepared for Sherlock to be grumpy for the next few days, or however long it took for him to process and then blow up at her, as he usually did.

She was not prepared for the case to end with an arrest neither of them knew about until after formal charges were filed.

 

"We just got lucky," said Bell. "The surveillance team picked him up at her house and his fingerprints match."

"I'll let Sherlock know," she said. "Will you be needing anything more from him?"

"Not for now," said Bell, and Joan could hear the relief in his voice. "He calmed down yet?"

"No, still not talking," she said. "I think he's still a bit upset."

"He's upset? That's a bit rich."

"I know, I'll talk to him," she said, and Bell ended the call without saying goodbye.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock emerged from the mass of papers and photographs that constituted evidence only a few hours later. Joan was waiting in the dining room, though Sherlock's half of the fried noodles had gone cold and her bowl was already washed and draining.

"I take it, from your clandestine conversation with one of our favourite officers of the NYPD and the rather neutral meeting you have orchestrated, that our services are no longer required in this case," he said. "It's cold." 

"Heat it up, then," Joan said, and stood to leave the room. 

"I may have been a little overbearing, earlier," he said.

Joan turned, blocking the doorway as best she could. "A little? The poor woman was stressed out and she was scared of you. You made it worse. Did you even stop to think that not everything is a sign that someone is hiding something?" 

"But she was hiding something. Her condition was not immediately apparent, even to me. Don't you think I would have been more considerate if that information had been provided in advance?"

Joan felt every ache in her body as anger, ill-timed and hardly useful, heated her thoughts. It was as if the air was thicker and that made it harder to regulate her breathing and keep her reaction as invisible as possible.

"You can't treat people differently because they have a disability. Do you know how wrong that is?" In response, Sherlock was both calm and silent, and the microwave dinged. He retrieved a fork from the drawer and pressed the button to open the microwave door, almost as if she wasn't there. "Sherlock, it shouldn't matter whether you know somebody has a medical condition or not, it wouldn't hurt you to be more considerate to everyone. It would make our job easier, for one, and you wouldn't get us kicked out of crime scenes or have Captain Gregson have to make excuses for us all the time." She knew what the next words would be, even if she didn't intend to let Sherlock say them.

"Was she even a person to you? A person, with thoughts and feelings that you hurt? Will you remember her name when we have a new case, or in six months? You know, Sherlock, your people skills really do need some work. God forbid you are nice to someone for once. And you know, if you used common courtesy maybe it wouldn't matter if you missed something, because you wouldn't manage to get on the wrong side of absolutely everyone you come across."

 

She walked out, because there was nothing left to say but repeat herself, and she wasn't interested in Sherlock's excuses. He'd make it so that she got all turned around in her mind and this was something that she knew she was right on. Even if he was just frustrated because again, he'd found out that his observation skills were not infallible, and would just be taking it out on her, she didn't have the energy for it; and she was so tired, and not just of playing mediator.

When she couldn't sleep, and wedged her chair under the doorhandle to prevent Sherlock barging in and waking her if she did ever get to sleep, it occurred to her that it was something that would cost them dearly, and soon, if she didn't get through to him.

 

She didn't know that she would, again, be right, and be the one who had to deal with the fallout.

**Author's Note:**

> While the 'interrogation' in this piece generally indicates someone on the ASD spectrum, not everybody is the same or would react to Sherlock's particular brand of questioning in this way. Some people with anxiety disorders or trauma victims may also react similarly.


End file.
